


Hollow

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Depression, Drug Dealing, F/M, Fake Relationship, Hermit Draco, Hurt/Comfort, Post War AU, Recovery, Withdrawal, undercover granger, with sexy results, wizard illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24340072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: Ten years after the war Draco Malfoy is living in obscurity, cut off from most of wizard society and working as a potioner for a healer in London. When he finds himself making mistakes, watching spells fail from his wand, he learns he's suffering from a rare wizard illness that is slowly sapping his magic and will eventually leave him a muggle. Sinking into a depression he discovers a new potion in development that boosts magic along with energy and mood. As his addiction to the potion takes hold he realizes he must start selling it to keep his supply steady.Hermione Granger works for the Ministry in the department of Unlawful Magic. When rumors start about a drug called Viper's Fang hitting the streets she goes undercover to meet with the center of the supply: The Asp.Things don't go quite as planned when she discovers The Asp isn't an underground druglord, but her old nemesis, suffering and broken as his magic fades away.Dedicated in its entirety to TheMourningMadam, who helped to bring my Dramione muse back to life, which not only means a new Dramione(after I'd sworn them off) but completed WIPs (dragon, blindness...) So thank her for that :)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 54
Kudos: 108





	1. The Owl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMourningMadam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMourningMadam/gifts).



DRACO

The potions lab was underground and windowless, built like a cave with shelves and cupboards built into the walls, and aside from the dampness that never seemed to dissipate, Draco liked it that way. There was something about the low ceiling and dark paneling that reminded him of the potions classroom at school or his practice lab on the first floor of the Manor and it made the atmosphere comfortable, like slipping into an old jumper. The other added benefit was that he was often in the lab alone, working in silence with no one asking questions, no one staring, no one wondering why he was even there.

Because it didn’t make sense that a rich pureblood wizard with, frankly, genius level potion skills should be working an entry level job at a hole in the wall healer’s shop in London. Then again, most smart, rich, pureblood wizards hadn’t willingly betrayed their entire generation, most hadn’t helped to send their own fathers to jail. And very, very few were wearing a permanent mark on their arm that screamed to all the world that evil ran through their veins. Voldemort had been dead for ten years but the dark mark would never go away. There were glamour spells he could use to hide it, sleeves he could pull down, but he was Draco Malfoy…the boy who let the darkness into Hogwarts…the youngest Death Eater ever to join that hideous, murderous cult. There was no point in trying to blend in with a community who would rather see him dead.

A knock at the door of the lab pulled his attention from the ingredients closet.

“Come in!”

“Just some mail my boy,” Healer Batchelder said, toddling through the door. “An owl came for you this morning along with a letter from your mother. Why don’t you just get mail at your flat?” He said, adjusting his spectacles before handing over the deliveries.

“No one knows where my flat is but you, mate,” Draco said, taking the scroll from his weathered old hand. “Thanks. I’ll have those blood cleansing potions upstairs before tea.”

“No rush. I told you there was no need to come in on a Saturday,” Batchelder said, closing the door to the lab behind him.

As if he had anywhere else to go.

  
After the destruction of Hogwarts, after the victory over Voldemort, after the trials and tribunals and his father being sent to prison, Draco seemed to disappear off the map. Against his mother’s pleas he left the Manor, unable to sleep in the house that had been a party to near daily torture, interrogation, murder. The dungeons beneath the house had been a prison for his own schoolmates, friends of his family, teachers, healers. He ate dinner at the same table where he'd watched a professor be devoured; helped to repair the crystal chandelier that had nearly killed his aunt. At night he would lie awake listening to them screaming, could hear their begging even after casting a silencing spell in his room or drinking himself into a stupor. It was impossible to silence the voices in his own head with magic. The Manor was a monument to everything that had destroyed him and he refused to live in it a moment longer than he had to.

The flat in Camden was part of an old piano factory, a vast open building turned into residential lofts. So for the first time in his life he lived among muggles, and had perfected a spell that kept his home undetectable by owls or apparition. Not even Narcissa had seen the inside no matter how hard she pleaded. For all intents and purposes, Draco Malfoy was gone, no longer a wizard but a ghost.

Until Neville Longbottom found him. Neville was an Herbology professor at the new Hogwarts Academy, now housed in a smaller castle in the south of England. The students were often sent into London on field trips, research assignments and even muggle studies outings, something Draco would have been immensely grateful for considering how long it took him to figure out the tangle of snakes that made up the transit system map. Draco had been preparing a batch of bruise paste for healer Batchelder and made the mistake of bringing them upstairs in the middle of the day rather than waiting until after working hours and Neville had seen him, the two of them not six feet apart in the tiny front room of the healer's offices. There had been no hope for escape.

“Malfoy!” He cried, pretending like they weren’t absolute enemies, like they hadn’t hated each other every minute of every day since they were eleven.

“Longbottom,” Draco answered, nodding politely, consuming himself completely with stocking the shelves with the little clay pots full of paste. He was surprised at how Neville had grown into...himself..no longer a lanky, bumbling tosser but a smart looking professor with a friendly smile, wearing a blazer no less! 

“Is this where you’ve been? We were all wondering what happened to you after...well…I mean, we never see you out, you’re never at the pubs or in the Alley…”

“Why should I be? So everyone can point and stare at the wanker who got everyone killed?” Draco snapped, turning his attention to some potion labels, straightening the bottles to face front, anything to withdraw from this interrogation. 

Batchelder pretended not to be listening, but after Draco’s outburst he could see the look of disappointment on the old wizard’s face. He was a pale, wrinkled hedgehog of a man and a life long bachelor, but after Lucius was sent away, Batchelder was the closest thing to a father Malfoy had. He'd taken Draco on even knowing of his mark, of the part he played in the war. _Everyone deserves a chance to make things right._ He'd told him, never bringing up his dark past again. In fact he asked few questions of his apprentice at all, but always seemed to know when the young man needed advice, when he was troubled, and he knew that Draco was lashing out at an old schoolmate because he was hurt. But he was also smart enough not to get involved.

“Course not, mate," Neville said, his voice incredulous, nearly offended that Draco would suggest such a thing. "I mean look, we’re not saying we want you over for dinner every Thursday or anything, but…we just wanted to make sure you were alright. You know Luna runs a support group on Wednesdays. It’s only a handful of people but they get a lot of help from just talking things through.”

Draco snorted, tugging at his left sleeve. Sometimes he could swear he felt it burning, aching like it used to.

“…I mean, the war…it…” Neville continued, shaking his head, unable to find the words.

“It’s over…it’s in the past. And so is Hogwarts,” Draco said. He caught the quiet sigh of frustration from Batchelder’s direction and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m fine. You can tell everyone I’m fine. I just…I’m taking some time alone, ok?”

“Sure,” Neville said, shrugging. “But hey…you look…well, Draco. Um…I’ll be back next week with some of the sixth year healing students,” he said. “They're doing an observation day with Batchelder. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “But don’t hold your breath.”

He opened the scroll the owl had delivered. It was written in a swirling golden ink, the edges of the parchment decorated with paintings of red and orange feathers, a logo of a phoenix with two crossed wands beneath it printed at the top.

>   
>  **You’re Invited!**  
>  **A Celebration of Phoenix Day**  
>  **10 Years of Our**  
>  **Victory Over Darkness!**
> 
> **Friday, May 2 2008**  
>  **Wand and Wick Pub**  
>  **Diagon Alley**  
>  **Festivities Begin at 7:00 pm**

He nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Why in the name of would they want Draco Malfoy at a class reunion? Why were they having a party celebrating the destruction of their school? Did they want to give him a plaque commemorating the death of half their classmates, parents, teachers, deaths that he helped instigate? He rubbed at the mark on his arm absentmindedly, a habit he’d picked up during his father’s trial, like trying to rub off a stain that was never going to come out. 

Throwing the scroll on the table he crossed his fingers and waved them over the paper, whispering _incendio_. In the months after the war, when he was under house arrest at the Manor, Draco spent days or weeks at a time practicing various wandless magic spells. It was a skill that only the most powerful wizards ever managed to master, being able to build walls of stone with a wave of their hand or summon their shoes to walk into the roomk with a snap of a finger, but he’d had nothing but time and in a matter of months had managed some of the more basic spells and practical charms. Yet when he performed the burning spell on the party invitation, the paper did nothing but curl at the edges. There was a smell of brimstone in the air but no fire, no spark. He tried it again and the corners of the paper darkened, as if smoldering, but quickly returned to normal. 

“Draco! Do you have any of that Wilhelmina Hair Growth tonic on hand?” Batchelder called down the stairs. “Perhaps…ah…without a label?”

Malfoy chuckled and tucked the scroll into the pocket of his trousers before grabbing the blue potion from a shelf.

  
His loft was on the third floor, and as he turned the corner from the center staircase of the warehouse he noticed that the front door to his flat was open, only an inch or so, but open nonetheless. He stood in the hallway, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as he crept towards the doorway, wand out.

“Hello?” He called out, pushing the door open. “Who’s there? Mother? Timothy?”

His Russian Blue cat appeared from the bedroom, walking up to wind between his legs. There were no lights on, nothing out of place and no one inside. It made no sense. Draco made a point, nearly an obsessive habit, of locking up every morning before he left. It was a series of three spells: locking, silencing and shrouding, keeping his life a secret. There was no way he would have forgotten one. Perhaps, like the incendio he’d attempted earlier, the spell simply hadn’t taken, but he had no idea why.

Most of his nights were spent reading, researching or futzing with potions, tweaking things to increase their shelf life or make them easier to brew in large batches. In his time with Batchelder the healer’s reputation had grown throughout London. His bedside manner combined with Draco’s skills in the lab kept his business brisk. Still, he kept his fees low, wanting to be available to all the wizards in need. It helped that Malfoy refused a salary, choosing instead to live on the trust he’d been gifted on his twenty first birthday. He wouldn't feel right taking money from someone else. Besides, the trust was more than enough to keep him comfortable for decades and his mother reminded him that he could come home to her any time.

While flipping through his notes on a new burn salve that helped to grow back skin affected by fiendfyre, he saw Timothy batting something around on the hardwood floor: the scroll to the Phoenix Day Reunion. He’d meant to throw it away as soon as he got home.

“Bring it here, mate,” he said, clicking his tongue at the cat. 

It had been nearly eight years since he’d seen anyone from Hogwarts. Of course there were dozens of people who would rather set him on fire than welcome him to their dinner table, but he could have kept in touch with Theo or Blaise, Pansy, or maybe Greg Goyle. The last time he’d seen his fellow Slytherins had been at Crabbe’s funeral, and Draco felt every eye on him while he was there, the air thick with accusation. _You knew he’d follow you anywhere. You knew he’d do whatever you asked. It should have been you and not him._ It was after that he’d started his retreat from the world, appearing only when required for interrogations and tribunals. His picture had appeared on the front page of the Prophet on the day he was acquitted: **Malfoy Heir Narrowly Escapes Azkaban.** No one had taken his photo since. He hadn’t even bothered to thank Potter and Granger for speaking on his behalf at the trial…the one thing that ate at him to this day. 

Timothy meowed and jumped onto the table, dropping the invitation in front of him. 

Maybe it was time to go back.


	2. The Wand and Wick

Through the front window Draco could see that the Wand and Wick was dark, smoky and bustling with people, casually dressed and enjoying each other’s company. There was music and laughter and here he was, right on time to ruin it all.

After a quiet dinner at home with an angry cat sitting across from him, Draco had decided to arrive at the party fashionably late, hoping that most of the group would be half drunk and too tired to berate him as soon as he walked in the door. If he played his cards right he could slip in, shake Neville’s hand, make a lap of the room and walk out. What could possibly go wrong in five minutes?

He could run into Pansy Parkinson as soon as he opened the door.

“By Rowena's Ruffled Cunt, it’s Draco Malfoy!” She cried, pulling him into her arms, a crushing hug that made him bite his tongue accidentally. “I can’t believe it! Merlin, Draco! I genuinely can’t….”

The piercing squeal of her voice caught everyone’s attention and he surveyed the room for their reaction. Some stood in shocked silence, eyebrows cocked in disbelief, others sneered in disgust, but a few, a blessed few, approached to clap him on the back, smiling, happy to see him, pretending that nothing had changed.

“Where’ve you been mate?” Theo asked, grinning ear to ear. 

Draco forced a polite smile and shook hands, nodding his head through their mindless small talk. None of them asked what it was like to see Lucius hauled off in chains. No one asked what it was like to be on trial for war crimes, sitting alone in shackles, humiliated as a hundred eyes stared daggers in your direction, mouths watering for revenge. None of them asked how it felt to carry the guilt of his allegiances, his actions; carried them every day. No one asked if he wanted a chance to make up for what he did, if he wanted to make amends. So he gave perfunctory answers to their innocent questions, not letting much information out into the world. A single reunion didn’t mean that he wanted everyone pounding down his door, poking around in his business. 

“Let me get you a pint, it’s open bar and we’re really digging into Seamus’ stores,” Blaise joked, dragging Draco further into the room.

“I…don’t know if…I really only came in for a second, just to see you lot and then I’ll….” 

But before he could get the excuse out a beer was thrust into his hand and he was shuffled into a corner booth, squeezed between some Ravenclaws he couldn’t quite remember. The drink went down easy and he paid for a second round, feeling far too comfortable in the midst of the conversation; not quite contributing, but content to listen to everyone else talking, to see their faces, hear new voices, new stories. As hard as it was to admit, he was lonely, and tea with Batchelder didn’t quite cut the mustard when he needed a human connection.

Theo and Millicent had been married for three years, traveling the world on her trust fund. Blaise had taken over his family’s business and Pansy was married to a halfblood from some city in Spain who owned a share of the Braga Broomfleet.

“Always knew I’d marry a quidditch player,” she said, throwing an arm around Draco’s shoulder, “you disappeared so I picked up a keeper instead.”

“That twat hasn’t played quidditch in thirty years,” barked Millie, rolling her eyes and Draco couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned in close to his ear and added, “he’s pushing seventy if he’s a day. Pansy claims it’s true love but I think she’s talking about his bank vault.”

“You’re such a cow, Mill,” Pansy said, draining her martini. “Come on, let’s go see if there’s any music.” 

One by one his friends at the booth left to either get drinks or mingle elsewhere and eventually Draco was left alone, running his finger over the top of his half empty pint. It surprised him to see that he’d been there nearly two hours. 

“Hey Malfoy,” 

Harry Potter stood at the end of the table, Ginny by his side with her arm looped through his. The royal couple of the universe and yet he still couldn’t manage a decent haircut.

“Potter,” Draco said, holding up his drink and granting him a nod. He was the savior of wizardkind after all, maybe worthy of a toast.

“How have you been?” Harry asked, sliding in to sit across from him, setting his drink on the table as if he intended to stay. 

Draco felt his body tense up, his heart racing with anxiety. The room suddenly felt very loud and crowded and the smoke stung his eyes. A raucous round of laughter went up somewhere near the toilets and he flinched as if he’d been shot. Downing the rest of the drink he quickly hid his hands beneath the table, rubbing at his left forearm absentmindedly. 

“Good, thanks. Yeah, good. I’m…I’ve got my own place in London now. How about you?”

Draco finally really took a look at the two of them, their wedding rings gleaming in the firelight, all warm smiles and friendliness. Everything in their lives was perfect. Theo had left a pack of cigarettes on the table and Draco quickly pulled one out and lit it, taking a drag deep enough to make his head spin. 

“We’re good, thanks. Just got a house in Kensington…” Harry said.

“We’re expecting!” Ginny cried.

She announced it with a wide toothy smile, leaning in to actually touch Draco’s hand as if he’d been waiting on the edge of his seat for the news. As if he’d ever even meet the blessed angel. As if it wouldn’t be like a dagger through his heart knowing that he’d never have half of what they did. He may have escaped a lifetime in Azkaban but he would serve a sentence for the rest of his life. A sentence of solitude. The more the two of them talked, the angrier Draco got. What was their angle? Why had they come over to see him at all? So they could tell the other two deities about the lonely Malfoy drinking himself into oblivion at the reunion? Sit together having a laugh about how pale and withdrawn he was, how the mighty had fallen? 

“Hello Draco,”

Speaking of. Draco looked up and there was Granger, standing with her arms crossed over her chest as if just returning her greeting would be an invitation to fight. 

“Hermione,” he said. “Happy…Phoenix Day.”

She said nothing, only nodded, picking up the glass of red wine on the table beside her. To be sure, he hadn’t expected to see a bushy haired swot in Hogwarts robes, but she was still a sight to behold, nothing like he could have predicted. Her hair was shorter, cut just below her chin and tamed into smooth caramel waves, one side held back by a jeweled clip. She’d never worn makeup in school, and now she only wore a bit of dark lipstick and black eyeliner that made her eyes look three times bigger, whiskey colored and glittering. It highlighted the little scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She wore a wine colored dress cut low in the front with a long gold chain holding a crystal vial of something that looked like swirling silver ink nestled right between her breasts. Draco must have been staring because she touched it and twisted it between her fingers, smiling.

“It’s a Veritaserum antidote,” she said. “I work for the Ministry.”

“Ah, yes,” Draco said. “They have a daily barrier potion for it now you know. If you knew you were going to be…at risk in the field you could take it for a few days before and after…”

Her face scrunched up, no doubt angry that he knew something she didn’t. Some things never changed.

“I’m a potioner,” he said. He no longer had the energy to bicker anymore. “I work…I work for a healer in the city.”

Neither Harry nor Hermione said anything for a moment but then Granger raised her glass and smiled.

“Well good for you,” she said. “You always were the best potions student.”

“Hey!” Harry shouted, “I won the liquid luck sixth year.”

“Because you cheated,” Hermione said, and Draco very nearly smiled at the sound of her voice. It took him right back to third year, listening to her challenging every professor on every point, hand raised in perpetuity. “If you hadn’t had Snape’s book, Draco would have won it.”

“Yes,” Draco said, draining his glass, “and everyone would have died that much sooner.” He stood up from his place in the booth and gave the three of them a kind nod. “It was so nice seeing you all. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Hey don’t leave,” Harry said, walking with him toward the door. “Draco, hey wait, none of us have seen you in years. We wouldn’t have invited you if we didn’t want to see you.”

“And why is that? Why in the fucking world would you want to see me Potter? To see how far I’ve fallen, to make sure I’m not plotting my revenge?”

“We’re not kids anymore Draco,” Hermione said, her voice soft, sincere even. “We know now how you grew up, the things you were forced to believe, forced…to do…this ridiculous…rivalry doesn’t have to continue. We know you aren’t…like that anymore.”

“Like what, Granger?” Draco asked, turning to face her. She was closer than he thought, close enough that he could see the different colors in her eyes, smell the spicy, woodsy scent of her perfume. “What am I not like anymore?”

He was half a foot taller than her but she was wearing high heels and only had to tip her face up to stand her ground.

“Well, a small minded bigot. I was going to say a caustic, selfish asshole but it seems you’ve carried on nurturing those amazing traits.”

For a moment they were all silent, even a few folks from the bar looking in their direction. He should have bit back, should have insulted her, informed her that she was still a stuck up prudish know it all, but in the end all he could do was smile, shaking his head as he chuckled. 

“I really did Granger. I mean, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I heard a muggle say the other day.”

“It’s broke, Malfoy,” she said, snorting out a laugh. “Believe me, it's broke.”

Hermione was smiling as well and it washed over him like relief. Her words weren’t laced with icy sarcasm or cruelty, she was laughing with him. He’d never seen her smile at him, and it was stunning.

They were never going to be the best of friends. He was never going to come out to the pub every Friday for a stroll down a horrifying memory lane, but there was some consolation in knowing that at least they didn’t hate him. Or that he wasn’t hated quite as much as he originally thought. And for someone like Draco Malfoy, that would be enough.

An hour or so later Pansy, Blaise and Theo walked with him to the end of the road and they each went their separate ways, heading for home with weak promises to get together in the future. He wasn’t quite sure he would keep those appointments, but somewhere in the back of his head he heard Batchelder telling him that life was for the living, and he was wasting it. 

He was only a few miles from the healer’s building, and rather than take the tube all the way home, he decided to apparate the office, get a bit of work done and then catch a few hours of sleep in one of the examination rooms. Doing little beyond going back and forth from work to home, Draco rarely had cause to use apparition and he wondered briefly if after three pints he’d throw up on Batchelder’s doorstep upon arrival but before he could change his mind he pulled his wand from his jacket pocket and with a flick and blink he felt the telltale pull of the spell tugging at his diaphragm.

He woke on the curb outside the building flat on his back, his whole body trembling in agony. Trying to sit up he felt as if his insides would fall out, his limbs weak and hot with stinging pain. 

“Fuck…help!” He cried, but his voice was weak, gravely. “Oh god, please help.”

HIs arms felt a bit stronger as he came into full consciousness and he pulled himself up onto the pavement, screaming in anguish. Looking down he saw his left leg, part of it, mangled and stretched out in front of him. A splinching wound wrapped around like a corkscrew from ankle to thigh, the flesh exposed and raw, burnt at the edges. He turned to the side and threw up in the gutter, falling back and looking up at the night sky. 

“Help. Please,” he said, but he had no idea who would hear him, and as another wave of pain shuddered through him he screamed in to the darkness and passed out completely. 


	3. Splinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't really had the heart to write fun, magical fiction lately. :( It seems frivolous. 
> 
> But I had to do some self care today and just do things that brought me peace. Writing and reading is an excellent escape, if only for a few moments. Talk soon!

  
“Come on boy…come on back, that’s it…”

He came to slowly, hearing a voice in the distance, as if echoing down a hallway. Batchelder.

“What…oh god…what happened?” 

Draco was on the healer’s examination table, his clothes vanished, a cooling charm cast over his forehead as the healer bustled around the room.

“Splinched, my boy. Splinched to high heaven by what I can see. How far did you try and go, son?”

While he spoke, Batchelder wrapped his leg in warm Dittany soaked rags that stung and throbbed with pain as they worked to heal his wounds. Looking down Draco saw there was an additional swirling vortex of red carved into his side, just below his ribs like a whirlpool of agony. It moved with each labored breath showing glistening exposed muscle and the pain nearly made him vomit again. 

“I…it was only…I was at the Wand and Wick.”

The healer stopped, his brow furrowed in thought before he dipped another rag in Dittany to apply to his stomach. 

“That’s only a few miles from here. It shouldn’t have been…unless you were drunk,” he said, looking at him over his spectacles in his standard disapproving way.

“I wasn’t bloody drunk you old bellend…fuck! Easy! Are you trying to make it worse?” Draco hissed, feeling his forehead break into a sweat despite the charm. He was lightheaded, his breathing shallow.

“Good to see your demeanor is back to normal,” Batchelder said, laughing. “Lucky I was up late reading. Heard you yelling like a cat out on the street and had to levitate you inside. Out cold. I’m afraid this one here will leave a scar,” he added, laying the last of the damp rags across his belly. “Very deep. You’ll need a few days to recover as it is and no lifting.”

“I don’t understand it,” Draco said, almost to himself, as the old man handed him a pain potion and something to help with sleep. 

“You may have been unfocused, over tired…it’s rare, but it happens.”

“Last week I tried an incendio and it…it never took. It just curled the paper. And my locking charms haven’t been taking. I’m using an actual lock and key for my front door like some sort of…like a…a muggle.”

Draco laughed weakly as he drank the two potions, the pain reliever taking quick effect. Outside the sun was starting to come up. He felt like he’d been awake for ages.

“How long have your spells been failing?” Batchelder asked, taking out his wand. 

Without waiting for Draco’s answer he cast a diagnostic on the young wizard, making inquisitive noises and nodding his head as he analyzed the various lights and swirls of smoke before a pale green glow bloomed beneath his skin just below his heart. It stuttered and pulsed and then went out when he pulled the wand back.

“Like I said, just a week or so,” Draco said. “And they aren’t all failing…just a few here or there…perhaps they’re too complicated, or I wasn’t getting the hand movement right…”

The healer gave him an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised.

“Incendio? I believe you learn that second year, no?”

“Well yes, but I…the locking…listen you rotten pillock, I’m fine. I’m going to head back down to the lab and work on…”

“Absolutely not. You’re going upstairs to lay down for a few hours and then you’re going home. I’m…I’m not seeing patients today so I’m going to do a little research. A couple of your levels seem…off and I don’t like your blood density.”

Draco slid off the examination table and winced as he stood, putting the whole of his weight on the splinched leg. The sleeping potion was starting to wash over him, his limbs heavy, his breathing slow. With the healer’s help he was up the stairs and tucked into a comfortable bed and within a few minutes, he was asleep.

He woke up in the bright afternoon light, the pain potion starting to wear off and the throbbing ache in his leg and side ramping up. On the table beside the bed was a cup of tea and some biscuits as well as another potion. Even through his pain he couldn’t help but smile. It had been so long since someone had taken care of him, touched him with gentle, soothing hands and concern. He regretted snapping at the healer, calling him names; any kindness had been met with suspicion for years.

“Abner!” Draco called, pulling himself up to sit. “I think I can manage to get myself home, I’ll just take the—“

The healer came in, his face drawn and serious, not at all his usual jolly self. 

“Take your potion,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

Draco felt a flip deep in his belly. He didn’t like the way he was talking so softly, how he was pulling up a chair to sit beside him. He’d seen this sort of bedside manner before and it never ended well.

“What is it?”

“I need to do one more diagnostic spell and I’ll be able to explain what’s happening to you. May I?”

Draco could barely speak he was so afraid. It had been years since he’d felt such dread, like a cold oil dripping down his spine. All he could do was nod at Batchelder, watching with wide eyes as he pulled his wand, touching it to the spot on Draco’s chest where the green glow had been earlier. Again the light appeared, pale and throbbing like a beating heart, but in an erratic pattern before winking out. Abner shook his head and looked at his watch. With a small movement of his hand the light started again… this time flickering only for a second before disappearing. 

“No,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the wand back. “Dammit.”

“W-what was that? Hey, what was that? Abner, mate, what was that?” Draco’s voice nearly cracked as he watched the healer stare at the end of his wand, shaking his head. “Tell me!”

“That was your magical core,” he said. “It’s…it’s fading. When you told me about your failed spells, and knowing your…history…I suspected, but it’s so rare I would never have imagined…”

Draco’s head was spinning, his lungs tight as he tried to understand what was being explained to him. To keep from passing out he focused on the tiny flowered pattern of the wallpaper behind Abner’s head, the blue and white, little flecks of green…two flowers…three leaves…

“It’s an affliction called Cavae Magia…loosely translated to Hollow Magic. It means that over time your magical core is unable to restore itself.”

_…one flower…one leaf…_

“The symptoms of course are failed spells, inability to apparate or use legilimency, etc. You’ll slowly…over a matter of months, or maybe years….lose your magical core altogether.”

_…two flowers…three leaves…_

“Draco I’m so sorry…”

“No. No fuck sorry. What can we do? What can I do? Rest? Potions? Did we catch this in time? There has to be something you can do.” 

His throat was tight as he felt tears stinging his eyes. Everything in his life had been taken from him. He’d long ago lost his reputation, his family, his friends…and now he was going to lose…himself. 

“I’m sorry Draco. Now there are…there are potions in development that can boost your core for a time, a sort of re-energizer, but it’s a short term solution and a dangerous one. It’s a very rare and dark condition.”

“How? How did I get this? Why did I get this?” He was nearly hysterical, his heavy breathing and yelling sending waves of agony through his side. Darkness started to feather the edges of his vision and he flopped backward onto the bed to keep from falling over. “Why?”

“Cavae Magia is…it’s somewhat hereditary, meaning that it’s a pureblood affliction for the most part. But it can be triggered by long periods of extreme stress and extensive exposure to the Crucio curse, and from what you’ve told me about your time…”

“Yeah…yeah…I get it.” He stared at the ceiling, white, blank. “Well there it is. My sentence.”

He walked home alone from the healer’s offices, every step a sharp ache up the left side of his body, Dittany soaked bandages soaked through with blood from the wound that hadn’t yet closed. As the spring rains started he wrapped his jacket around himself and for the first time he stared at the muggles around him with inquisitive eyes. Studious. Gone was his aristocratic arrogance, his confident swagger that he’d clung to even in the darkest of times. Even when he was a pariah, an outcast, the worst of the worst, he still had magic to hold over these swirling masses shuffling by, a grey blur of mundane humanity. And now he was no better than them, no better than anyone. He had nothing. Draco Malfoy was literally half a man, barely a wizard and now he knew there was nothing he could do to fix it.

After a night of pain and sleep potions sunk him into numb, dreamless bliss, he spent the next few days at home. Abner asked no questions and sent owls filled with fatherly platitudes that brought tears to Draco’s eyes. Why should he care if Draco lost his magic, or how he felt? What did it matter? Once his core was drained, he’d never be able to see Abner again…never see his classmates, his mother, the crooked cobblestones of Diagon Alley, the swirling iridescent colors of a potion bubbling in a cauldron. A day was going to come when a wand would be no more than a decorative stick of wood, an owl no more than a bird watching from a tree…a bird with more power than a man. He was fading.

And then, a week later he found his glimmer of hope. Just as Batchelder had said, there was a potioner in Norway that brewed the magic booster under the name of Viper’s Fang. It was extraordinarily expensive and took a brave and steady hand to brew a combination of nearly fifteen ingredients. Filled with new energy, Draco sent him an owl, detailing the symptoms of his ailment and the official diagnosis of Cavae Magia from the healer. And through a communication with Gringotts a tidy sum was exchanged, sent directly to a vault outside Oslo.

“Draco! It does my heart good to see you!” Abner said, pulling his apprentice into a tight hug that Draco accepted with veiled affection. “You look good as new.”

“Yes, except that I’m essentially dying,” he said, frowning. “But I might as well keep brewing while I can. You’ll have to find a new lackey soon, I’m afraid.”

“Draco, it could be years, maybe a decade or more before your magic is depleted. You have to hold out hope!” 

Batchelder followed him down to the lab beneath the offices. Draco threw his jacket over a chair and wandered the room, running his hands over the jars of ingredients, the empty vials waiting to be filled with magic. He took a moment to just stare at his wand, to feel and appreciate the heft of it, the smooth handle, the rich dark wood. 

“Lumos,” he whispered, and it lit up, a white glow that danced off all of the glass and metal in the room. The easiest, most basic spell. So beautiful.

“Draco…” Abner said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re still a wizard. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re right. That’s why I want to work. Have there been any deliveries since I was away?”

“Yes, a few ingredients and some larger orders from some households in Scotland…oh and a package from Norway!”

Draco’s eyes lit up and he walked in the direction of the healer’s outstretched finger. A small brown paper package with white string sat on Draco’s chopping table.

“Perfect,” he whispered, tearing into the box.

The three vials were in a worn leather pouch that rolled in on itself, tying up into a neat scroll. Instead of the familiar smooth, bulbous vials he was used to in UK potions, these were in long, squared beakers with wax sealed corks. The potioner had told him that each vial held three doses and each lasted close to a week. 

That gave him nine weeks to figure out how to brew the sickly orange sludge all on his own. Cavae Magia could take away his magic, but he would still have his brain, and this was what he was best at.

“Draco, what have you there?”

Malfoy lifted the first vial and cracked the wax seal, a pungent scent of rosemary and fennel filling the room, a memory booster and aid in mental clarity no doubt. He sniffed the vial and drank down a third of it, bitter and thick on his tongue. He shuddered through the vile taste and smiled as he felt everything within him come alive, every cell clear and clean, every wound healed, every hurt forgotten. He was brand new. He’d found it.

“My parole.”


	4. Ennui

**HERMIONE**

  
Sometimes, the chaos of the ministry offices became so senseless that the dull roar of it lulled Hermione into a trance of boredom. The endless rhythm of rubber stamps and typewriters, the swish of memos and owls coming to and fro...it usually happened on Wednesdays, when the Minister of Unlawful Magic demanded that they all catch up on their paperwork, submitting requests, expense reports, the usual red tape that kept them from actually getting anything done or daring to leave early in order to live some sort of personal life. As the ten or so department members sat at their desks, the scratching of quills and murmur of voices joined together into some sort of strange white noise that left her frozen in place, staring out at nothing, her pen in midair, entirely inert unsure of which pointless task to do next.

It was the best way to describe what her job was like.

After the Potter War, the boys had gone on to Auror training, fancying themselves the stars of some wizard adventure novel, destined to spend the rest of their lives chasing the bad guy, non stop excitement, nary an expense report to be found. She’d had enough of the heart racing worry, the uncertainty of each morning, the inability to breathe or sleep or laugh for fear of making one wrong move. It was a time in her life that she did NOT miss, and so she went into Unlawful Magic instead. It appeased her obsession with justice and easily enforced rules while also allowing her to go home at the end of the night and read a book or go to a movie without being weighed down by the guilt of abandoning some higher cause. The peace allowed her to fully process her thoughts, make sense of her feelings, grieve those she lost, something she was sure Harry and Ron would rather put off forever. Being a superhero had been exhausting, but it kept messy emotions at bay. 

In fact it was her desire for peace and quiet, a sense of normalcy, that had ended her relationship with Ron, who couldn’t seem to step out of the role of Saviour Sidekick to live a normal life, even part time. He was forever tagging along with Harry on some high level Auror business or “checking something out” in some far off land and it left no time for a quiet dinner or a romantic walk through the park. Of course she harbored no ill will towards the hopeless ginger, and she honestly looked back on their eight months together with great fondness. He’d been exactly what she needed at the time…but now she needed something…deeper, something more. She needed someone who wanted to be with her, not just take her along with. And after nearly nine years, she was still looking.

At least she had a job. Of course, after a few years, when everything in the wizarding world started to settle down, the work became less of a ‘welcome respite’ and more of ‘an exercise in mind numbing ennui’. There was the occasional shipment of counterfeit potions from Sweden or smuggling of Unicorns into Australia where they were expressly forbidden after the “1975 Incident At Perth”, but for the most part it was chasing down twelve year olds trying to apparate on a dare or issuing citations for mind altering substances dealt in places like Knockturn Alley, where she really didn’t like wandering after dark.

When the work was slow and she was stuck at her desk she continued with her research and writing on diagnosing and treating psychological issues in magicfolk. It was Harry who had suggested the book after they’d both testified at Draco’s trial. Seeing him so broken, a shell of himself as he was brought before the Wizengamot in literal chains was a vision that had settled in the pit of her stomach, sour and insistent. She and Draco had been enemies for years, but he was still only an eighteen year old child when they suggested throwing him into Azkaban beside his father, taking away decades of his freedom to ‘make an example’ of him, a warning not to stray too far into the dark lest you be knocked down. 

It had come as some sort of vast revelation to many on the Wizengamot that Draco’s behavior was probably influenced by a childhood filled with misinformation, neglect and bigotry. Psychology wasn’t a popular subject amongst the magic population. Any ailment that couldn’t be immediately fixed with a sip of a potion or the flick of a wand was considered fake or exaggerated, and the impact of trauma, abuse, grief, anxiety…was rarely considered when meting out punishment, particularly after the Potter War. It was Hermione’s hours of research alone on Draco’s behalf that had saved him from Azkaban. Now, with her free time (and sometimes while she was on the clock and the days were too boring) she was attempting to write a very basic book of therapeutic advice for wizards, hoping to be able to help the war veterans with their psychological and emotional issues of having been a child soldier, conscripted into an army with only a moment’s notice, losing friends and family by the dozens in one day. She knew too many students who were never the same after the war. Beatrice Fairknot was a good friend of Lavender Brown and after witnessing her violent death she’d shut down completely and was last seen living on the streets of London, addicted to muggle drugs and doing God knows what for money. 

It hadn’t surprised Hermione that Draco never bothered to formally thank her for her testimony, she knew he was far too proud for something like that. She hadn’t done it to prove herself to Malfoy or to show him what she was worth. She’d done it to protect other wizards who might find themselves walking the same path, poisoned by the bigoted views of their parents, hoping to show them there was a way to break out. Besides, he’d given her a terse but respectful nod after her speech at the Wizengamot, actually meeting her eyes and holding her gaze for a moment in a way that let her know he saw her differently. That had been enough. 

It had however surprised her when he showed up to the class reunion. She hadn’t been too enthused to go to the crowded pub and tell the same stories they told every year; but when Neville told her that he’d found Draco working in some dusty old healer’s office and that he was alive and well and invited to the party, she knew she couldn’t miss it for the world. Why she wanted to see Draco so desperately she couldn’t say; maybe just to see what he looked like as an adult? Did he wear his hair like Lucius did? Did he dress in wizard robes or had he fallen to the allure of Muggle jeans? Or maybe she was just worried for him, worried that he’d have stumbled further into darkness, all rotted and greasy like Samuel Borgin, creeping around Knockturn Alley like a money hungry rat. 

She stood at the back of the bar near the dartboard with a gin and tonic, watching the door all night, wondering if he would actually show up or if he’d simply been polite with Neville and had no intention of showing his face which is what they all expected. His entrance halfway through the party had shocked her. He was taller than she remembered, his slim build poured into a pair of dark jeans and a black turtleneck jumper that hugged the lean muscles of his arms. He’d kept his white blond hair short, but the front was longer than it had been in school, tousled and soft looking, unlike the structured, unwelcoming style he’d worn for so many years. His whole appearance was softer, blurred a bit at the edges and she was taken aback at how…deflated he looked. They’d all taken a hit in their last years of school and the years beyond, but he was a shadow of his former self, his cheekbones and jaw sharp, his eyes cast downward instead of the proud, arrogant nose in the air Draco she’d grown up with, even a bit of scruff on his cheeks. The boy who used to physically push his way through crowds, who insulted adults, even professors right to their face was now withdrawn and nervous. Even when Pansy ran up to hug him he was stiff in her arms, patting her back once or twice before pulling back completely. Hermione surmised that he was touch starved yet probably too angry or self involved to admit it. He’d been standoffish and cold since he was eleven years old so there was no reason to believe he’d become an affectionate party hopper, but he’d always been willing to shake hands or give a high five when he was younger and certainly more than happy to be the center of attention.

“We should say hi,” Harry whispered to her, “I mean, instead of you just psychoanalyzing him all night from across the room.”

“Shut up Harry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He doesn’t look like himself, does he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who he is anymore, do you? For all we know he’s a monk. Come on, let’s just go say hi.”

“You and Ginny go on ahead…I’ll catch up.”

He’d ended up being cordial and quiet, although still sharply sarcastic and, if possible, even more defensive than he had been as a kid. He did show a bit of interest in her work with unlawful magic, although mostly because he’d seen the potion hanging around her neck….between her breasts. He was a man after all. Still, his eyes had lit up briefly when they talked about it later, how he’d done the research on long acting potions and their efficacy in the field. While everyone at the party was chomping at the bit to show pictures of their children or brag about their latest promotion, Draco’s only passion seemed to be research. He rarely bragged about his own achievements, although working for Abner Batchelder was a likely goal for all high level potion brewers as the man had written several books on healing potions and their composition. Instead of talking about his life with the healer, Draco offered up books and articles and new research by other wizards that had lead to his own inspiration, going so far as to suggest a volume she would enjoy, having remembered her paper on the use of Unicorn Horn in antidotes. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her he’d even smiled once while they talked about a new variant on Polyjuice Potion that allowed a wizard to appear as a blood relative of someone…bearing similar hair and bone structure, accent and eye color. Some experts agreed it could be helpful in investigations and therapeutic situations, but Hermione’s career had shown her that no matter what the original intention of a potion or a spell, someone would find a way to abuse or weaponize it for their own gain.

“Who is it that decides what is abuse? Who decides which potions are inappropriate?” Draco asked her, crossing his arms over his chest as if in a challenge. “What does ‘unlawful’ mean?”

“Distributing to children, selling them on the black market. And obviously there are people out there who use medicinal potions recreationally and that’s wrong.”

“Why?” He asked. “Some of those can be brewed in your own kitchen. Icicle is so simple a third year could make it. Why not mind your own business and let people take care of themselves? Liquor and Pixie Hair weed aren’t unlawful.”

Icicle was a pain potion originally designed for older wizards with aching bones and swollen joints. Then it was discovered that in healthy, younger folk it was euphoric and hallucenogenic, and quickly became a popular party drug. And he was right, it was cheap and simple to make and she’d seen more than a handful of people lose their lives to a habit.

“Because I’ve seen a fifteen year old witch dead on the ground from it, Draco! You can’t just have a magical free for all out there…there have to be rules.”

“Children, sure. But you have too many rules for the adults if you ask me,” he said, finishing his drink. For a moment she saw a glimpse of the Draco she remembered, a sneer on his lips, one eyebrow arched to his hairline. The high horse had been mounted. “I think if someone has the skills to recreate a potion or develop a brand new one, they should be able to do so. It’s all natural or magic ingredients. Who knows, the next miracle cure might be discovered. As adults we should be able to make our own decisions.”

“Some people don’t make good decisions,” she said.

For a moment they were both quiet, the silence between them heavy with memory and regret. All of the arrogance and confidence he’d had just seconds earlier faded away and after a minute Draco smiled and sighed, spinning the M signet ring on his pinky with the pad of his thumb. 

“And those people always end up getting punished for it somehow. The universe has a way of assuring it.”

The words had cut her to the bone. She could see the agony, the loneliness and desperation in his eyes as he waited for her reaction. But she wasn’t sure what to say. Hadn't they all wanted him to be punished? To suffer? Ron and Seamus had entertained wild violent fantasies of what would happen to him in Azkaban and only stopped joking about it when Hermione shut them both up. Everyone else seemed to have taken what had happened to them and moved forward with it, growing with it, using it, but something about Draco was mired in the darkness of his past, like a tar pit he couldn’t climb out of. But maybe if someone helped pull him free? And yet before she could suggest it, he was gone.

It had been nearly four months since the reunion and no one had seen him since. A few weeks after the party she’d gone round to Batchelder’s offices but the kindly old man told her that Mr. Malfoy had taken a sabbatical and was doing research work on his own. Even when she’d flashed her Ministry credentials and her sweet sparkling smile he’d refused to give her Draco’s address and so he was back in the ether, all on his own. There was nothing more Hermione could do.

  
Someone dropping a pile of scrolls on her desk startled Hermione out of her memories. It was her partner Hannah Abbott, and she looked excited.

“A genuine, _hit-the-streets-and-ask-questions-whip-out-your-wand-and-rough-up-some-suspects-investigation_!” She said, tapping the scrolls with two fingers. “We’ve got an underground drug ring, right here in London.”

“There’s a lot underground drug rings in London, Han,” Hermione said, opening the first scroll.

It was from the ministry in Norway. Her heart leapt for a minute. She’d never been to Norway, was that a possibility? Reading further she learned there was a new underground potion called Viper’s Fang that helped to boost and energize a wizard’s magical core.

“Why would they need that?” Hermione asked out loud. 

“Older wizards, sick wizards, injured. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this portioner in Norway sold a batch of it to someone in London and now there’s a brisk business selling it here,” Hannah explained. “I don't even know if it has recreational value, but whatever it does must be incredible. I heard a single hit goes for over 25 galleons. ”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Anyway, Minister Bell wants us to break up this ring and confiscate as much of the stuff as we can so they can try and regulate it a bit. Whoever the kingpin is, they have a mainline on the potion ingredients and whoever’s brewing it really knows their stuff. So look, take the files home and read them. We’re heading out undercover on Friday. How’s your glamour game lately?” 

“Fine,” Hermione said, already reading the first page of notes. “I’ll be ready.”


	5. The Asp

After work on Friday she met Hannah at a pub down the street from the wizard club where they were going to do recon. In the past few days she’d absorbed every word of the intel Hannah had gathered on Viper’s Fang, even going so far as to figure out seven of the fifteen ingredients used in the potion based on its description and comparison to other mixtures. Testimonies from officials in France and Norway indicated that it wasn’t really a party drug, per se, or a potion that young wizards were hoarding up to get high on like they did with Icicle. The exorbitant price and the ultimate purpose didn’t fit as something craved by the young generation aside from the unfortunate few with degenerative diseases or overachievers trying to excel at school and needing that boost to get through OWLS. For the most part this was going to be for a much more exclusive clientele with a far more subtle approach.

So when they stepped into The Alchemy Club on Green’s Street she was shocked to find a darker, more sleek and sensual atmosphere than she’d prepared for. While the music wasn’t deafening, it did have a penetrating, throbbing beat she could feel in her stomach, the steady rhythm almost hypnotic as it drew them down a dark, upholstered hallway with black marble floors and a ceiling swagged in purple fabric and black chain. Witches in tight gold gowns and high heels served drinks while huddled groups smoked mysterious substances from elaborate, jeweled pipes. There was dancing, but it was slow and intimate, the black parquet floor nothing but a roiling mass of perfect bodies intertwined and undulating under black iron chandeliers. Two or three raised platforms held people painted silver assuming various poses, changing every few minutes, winking and smiling at passers by. Beside her, Hannah giggled with delight, tugging at the bottom of her black bandage dress as they waited to be admitted into the main salon. Hermione had done enough research ahead of time to know bribery wasn’t the key. She had to know a member in good standing. If that person happened to be there that night she could be in trouble, but she was willing to take the chance. 

“May I help you?” The young man at the door asked.

He was young…and…perfect…with deep amber colored eyes and inky black hair swept back behind his ears. Almost a foot taller than her with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms, he guarded the door wearing nothing but black leather trousers and a silver chain around his neck. It suddenly hit Hermione just how long it had been since she’d had a good shag and for a moment her mind went blank. 

“Ma’am?” The host asked, his plush, beautiful lips curving into a smile, as if he understood how easily she could be distracted by specimen such as himself.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, clearing her head, her throat, her imagination. “Yes, we’re here as a guest of Lionel Slate.”

All she knew of Lionel was that he was a nearly forty year old millionaire wizard who owned quite a few pubs around the city, both magical and otherwise, a halfblood who made waves in both worlds. He was a notorious party hound and single, so the fact that two women would show up on his recommendation would come as no surprise. Hermione feigned looking around the room over the Adonis’ shoulder.

“Is he here yet?” She asked, secretly praying he was not. 

“No ma’am,” he said, “But you’re welcome to come in.” He leaned in and put his lips to her ear. “And please let me know if there’s anything I can do to you.”

“Don’t you mean _for_ me?” Hermione asked, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“Not at all,” he said before turning his attention to the next couple in line.

  
They bought drinks at the bar and found their way to a small booth near the back of the club where they could watch both the dance floor and the entrance. The plan was to get information on where people were getting Viper’s Fang, whether it be via the owners of the club, the dancers, or someone setting up shop in a booth or at the bar. Hannah had done a bit of research at a smaller pub on the other side of the city and apparently the clue was to talk about feeling “hollow”, the code word that meant you knew what you were looking for. But because it wasn’t a party drug so much as a “lifestyle choice” and damn near a lifetime investment Hermione wasn’t sure people would just be handing vials back and forth on a Friday night.

It was a rainy night and the club was mellow, the crowd not growing very much even in the later hours and before long Hermione and Hannah were bored and a bit tipsy, laughing and chit chatting in the corner, lost in their own world. Their eyes had been opened to a few interesting scenarios: well known public figures engaging in extramarital shenanigans, a man in an expensive set of black wizard robes escorting a young woman in a mask and red negligee through the room on a leash, and just to round out a night of odd magic, two older wizards got into a sloppy, drunken duel on the dance floor that left one of them with no hair and the other covered in welts. Adonis From The Front Desk came to escort the men out of the club and caught Hermione’s eye, giving her a wink. Perhaps the night wouldn’t be a total loss. 

“Can we buy you a drink?” She blurted out. “It’s almost my bedtime but I wanted to thank you for letting us in even though our friend didn’t show up.”

“Lionel Slate spends the summer in the South of France,” he said, smiling as he slid into the booth beside her. “He hasn’t been here for months.”

“Oh…I…” Her heart started pounding as she tried to come up with an excuse, a story, another name.

“Don’t worry about it ladies, you add a bit of beauty to the atmosphere and I’m allowed to make judgement calls.”

“Yes,” Hannah said, finally piping up as she downed the rest of her drink. “Well we had to get out of the office. Work has been so draining lately and we’re feeling a bit hollow.”

Hermione’s eyes shot up to meet hers and then over to the young man whose hand had made its way to her knee. She had not signed up for this kind of temptation on the job. Part of her wondered if they were pumping an aphrodisiac into the room along with the fog and charmed sparkle effects. 

Adonis sat up a bit straighter and she saw a pulse of tension in the hinge of his jaw. It was the tiniest of reactions, but something she and other officials had been trained to spot. They were onto something.

“Yes,” Hermione added, running a finger over his forearm. “Just feeling so depleted lately. Work has been crazy. Someone suggested we come here to let our hair down and just let go. Rejuvenate.”

He cleared his throat and nodded slowly as if thinking things over, his eyes following her fingertip along the length of his arm. Hannah got up and made an excuse to go to the ladies room, leaving the two of them alone. Hermione inched closer to her new friend and smiled.

“I hope you can help us out,” she said, adopting a bit of a doe eyed expression, “I think you know what we’re looking for.”

“I do,” he said. “You’re lucky too. If you have the money, he’s here tonight.”

She backed up, furrowing her brow. 

“What?”

“Yeah. Just tell me your name, show me the five hundred galleons and I’ll let you meet him. He’s not here on the floor of course, not one for…well…being out in public. Sort of a loner type.”

“Oh…of course, I mean..” She was flustered and a bit excited at the prospect of meeting a high level player in the game. 

Things were moving much faster than she’d anticipated. A dealer would know who was brewing the potion and could be flipped into breaking the whole ring wide open. This wasn’t just a bartender slipping a vial to someone in the men’s room; it was a whole business being run out of a sex club. They could be halfway finished with the whole thing tonight. If only she’d brought enough galleons.

“Let me go talk to my friend in the ladies room,” she said. Then she tried to close the deal by squeezing his thigh, leaning in to his ear. “I want to freshen up anyway.”

“Sure baby,” he said, standing up to let her out of the booth. “And I’ll make sure he’s available to talk.”

“By the way, what’s his name?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t think he likes to use his real name. It’s all very hush hush. They just call him The Asp.”

Hannah was waiting in the ladies room and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head when Hermione explained the plan. 

“The Asp? What is this a spy novel?” She asked, snorting with laughter.

“He just doesn’t want to use his real name whoever he is,” Hermione said, reapplying her wine colored lipstick. “I wonder if he’s well known? A ministry worker? Public figure?”

“Why would a ministry worker risk running a drug ring?”

“Excitement? Debt? Money?” Hermione answered. “Speaking of, he doesn’t make deals for under five hundred galleons. What do you have on you? You know the department will pay you back.”

“I sure as hell don’t have five hundred galleons, Granger!” She said, shaking her head. “We’re going to have to come back, get some from the vault tomorrow.”

“No! Dammit! He’s here tonight and Mr. Torso out there said that we’re lucky he is. How much do you have?”

The two of them dug through their bags and found two hundred galleons between them, less than half of what they needed for the meeting. As much as she hated doing it, there was a reason they’d put Hannah and Hermione on the job. She was going to have to try and charm her way to The Asp. Hannah crossed her arms and raised a brow.

“We already know bouncer boy likes you. So go make him an offer; a little wink, a little cleavage, give him a tug under the table…”

“ABBOTT!”

“Look, just do whatever you need to do to get him to talk you up to the old codger in the back. He’ll go tell the snake you’re a young, sexy woman who will do anything for a hit and we’ll be in business.”

“That’s usually your role,” Hermione said, staring at herself in the mirror. Between the two of them, if someone was going to seduce a mark, it was usually the gregarious, courageous Hannah, but she had to admit that playing the vixen for the night did appeal to her. She pointed her wand at her hair and twisted it up into a tight knot. Harry told her once that guys like to see exposed neck, a bit of collarbone, and her dress was already quite low cut. She pinched her cheeks until they pinked up a bit and raised an eyebrow to assess herself.

“Well you certainly seem ready to take it over,” Hannah said.

"Just give me your galleons and shut up.”

Adonis was waiting back at their booth and he’d taken the liberty of refilling their drinks as well as bringing a pint for himself. It was after midnight and he was now wearing a black v-neck tshirt.

“Off the clock,” he said, when the girls got back. “By the way, I’m Justin,” he said, holding a giant hand out for Hermione to take. “Who should I say is asking for him?”

“I have to go…talk to someone…over there,” Hannah said, picking up her drink. “Let me know when you need me doll.”

“Justin, nice to meet you,” Hermione said, sipping at her vodka tonic. “Here’s the thing, we…well we don’t have five hundred galleons together just now. I didn’t realize there was a minimum. We were just looking to…explore the possibilities tonight,” she purred, standing close to him. 

His eyes were dark and smoldering and he smelled very nice. He was also smiling as if he’d seen this sort of smooth talk before. 

“And you want me to put in a good word for you with the boss?” He asked, tipping his head.

“Yes. Please,” she said, dropping all pretense. “I can get the money later if he needs the full amount, but…just let me talk to him and I'm sure he'll…oh…I’m Astrea, and my friend over there is Piper.”

“OK Astrea,” He said, crossing his arms. “I’ll go tell him there’s two pretty girls out here ready to make a deal…but I get something in return.”

“O…Ok,” she said. 

“Dinner, Sunday night. I work tomorrow."

That was easy enough. She smiled and nodded and the deal was done.

They sat in the booth in tense silence, each of them nursing their drinks as they waited for the verdict. While they sat, Hermione glanced around the room looking for hidden doorways, mirrors, openings, somewhere where the mysterious Asp could be watching them. The walls were covered in sumptuous fabrics and charmed candle sconces that dripped with jewels. Erotic art in antique frames could be peep holes in disguise, crystal shards could be seeing glasses but there was nothing she could be sure of. 

Justin returned fifteen minutes later. The club was nearly empty by that time and what patrons were left had successfully paired off and were making plans to take their activities elsewhere. Hermione sat up in her seat and smiled.

“Well, he said he’ll see one of you,” he offered, looking pointedly at Hermione with one eyebrow raised as if the decision had already been made. “He usually won’t see anyone at all for under five hundred galleons so he must be in a good mood or he likes what he sees.”

“He can see us?” Hannah asked, looking over his shoulder.

“We’re in a magic club, sweetheart.”

“Yes, well, I guess…” Hermione turned to her friend and offered a a weak smile. “Why don’t you wait out here with Justin and maybe I can talk him into letting him meet with you as well?”

“Why?” Justin asked, and for the first time he looked a bit suspicious, his brows drawn together in concern. 

“Because we’re single women,” Hannah quickly covered. “And we have to be careful about what we’re doing, especially when it comes to taking new potions. I don’t drink things from strangers. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

The three stood in silence for a minute and Hermione was sure he could hear her heart racing, but after he considered her partner’s words, Justin simply shrugged and said, 

“Fair enough, but don’t get your hopes up. He's a notorious prick. Come on Astrea, I’ll introduce you.”

  
The door to the back of the club was hidden behind heavy wine colored draperies that lined the hallway to the restrooms. Pulling back the fabric, Justin pulled out his wand and tapped the black wall in a specific rhythm and the door swung open to reveal a darkly paneled, windowless office with a fireplace as its only light. In the center of the room someone sat in a high backed leather chair facing the fire, a crystal glass of whiskey on the table beside him as a cigarette smoldered between two long fingers. 

Justin had already disappeared.

“Hello,” Hermione said, a bit hesitant to step further into the room. “I’m sure Justin told you that I…”

The Asp stood from his chair before she could finish, revealing a lanky silhouette with shaggy, tousled hair. Before turning to face her he reached for a walking stick with what looked like a viciously sharp bird’s skull mounted on the top. He wore all black and walked with a limp, making him somewhat more ominous and intimidating, his eyes glittering in the dark. But none of those details mattered as she was already speechless staring down the man standing in front of her.

“Hello Granger,” Draco said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin may or may not be a little shout out to my other fandom bae ;)


	6. Fading Away

“Draco, what—“ she wasn’t even sure what question to ask first. 

When he came into the light she could see that he had changed quite a bit since the last time she saw him. The limp was the most obvious to her, although it was subtle and strangers may not have noticed had he not carried a walking stick. It clicked along the hardwood floor as he made his way across the room and when he got to the small black desk in the corner he threw it aside carelessly and let himself fall into the chair behind it. He was thin, thin even for his usual slim frame, with a nearly grey, gaunt face and heavy lidded eyes. He smiled at her but it was very clearly laced with sarcasm, as if daring her to mention how…deflated he looked, how much effort it had taken for him to even cross the room.

“What’s going on, Malfoy?” She finally blurted out, shaking her head in utter confusion, her capacity for tip toeing at its limit.

“I have to admit I never thought I’d see you hanging around a swingers club, darling,” he muttered, gripping the lit cigarette at the corner of his lips as he spoke, shuffling through the papers and scrolls on his desk. “I thought you were single, and a tightly buttoned up spinster at that.”

With one final, deep drag he crushed it out, exhaling the smoke in a thin white stream pointed over her head. His hand shook as he did it, an almost constant tremble, even when he put it flat on the desk. When she stepped closer she could see little dots of sweat on his forehead, a sheen like a child with a fever.

“Draco, what happened to you?” She persisted. As soon as the words came out she regretted them; their desperate, horrified tone. 

“Ah, as always, the greatest balm is a kind word from an old friend,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. 

Something wouldn’t allow him to keep still. As they talked he chewed on his bottom lip; the desk moved from his knee bobbing up and down beneath it, his eyes darted around the room, tiny pin prick pupils making his eyes an almost frightening shade of silver even in the low light.

“You didn’t have that limp when last I saw you,” she said, sitting down on the very edge of the leather sofa beside the fire. _You were handsome,_ she wanted to add, _your eyes were bright, there was pink in your cheeks_.

He worked his jaw for a moment, not looking her in the eye before sighing and shaking his head.

“No, I didn't.”

“So tell me what's going on,” she pressed. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“Yes, well…” he huffed out a laugh and shook his head but didn’t give her an answer, only started rummaging through a desk drawer, his actions growing more and more frantic by the second.

“Can I help you? Is something wrong?”

“Is this what you came here for? To do charity work for the class fuck up?”

Not finding what he needed he slammed the drawer shut and turned to the bookcase behind him, opening and closing a few tiny wooden boxes before sighing with relief. When he finally turned back to face her he was holding a slim glass vial, not unlike a muggle beaker. Inside was the thick orange potion that Hermione had been reading about for days: Viper’s Fang. Before she could even ask about it he’d broken the wax seal and drank it down, his whole body shivering as his Adam’s apple bobbed, nose scrunched up in distaste. With a heavy exhale he sat back in the desk chair, eyes closed, as if she weren’t even there. 

“You know why I’m here, Malfoy. I need the potion. I need to take it in for research. I know you have more.”

“Is that so? Aren't you a sleuth. You know, I knew the fucking Ministry would come knocking eventually. Merlin forbid anyone mind their own fucking business.”

While he talked, Hermione took the opportunity to walk around the office, looking at the shelves of the built in bookcases. Among all the volumes of healing theory, preventative spellwork and potion development were interesting artifacts and iconography from wizard populations around the world as well as a few personal effects that were familiar to her: a golden snitch fluttering eternally within a glass cloche, a collection of brightly coloured quills on display pressed beneath glass, a framed photograph of Slytherin House, third year. Most of the items were magical tokens for drawing youth, health and fertility; but some were mysterious; a silver and jet amulet carved with Nordic runes, or a worn copy of The Emperor Tarot card, mounted under glass in the reverse position.

“You know why it’s our business. I suspect one or two of the ingredients are restricted and it’s dangerous. You know it’s dangerous.”

“Do I?”

“Don’t be a smart ass,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Impossible.” He grinned, but even as he joked she could see the shadow behind it. The usual fiery wit was gone or hiding, muted, blurred. “Water is dangerous if you don’t use it correctly. You can kill someone with a hex if you pronounce a word wrong. At some point we must let the idiots weed themselves out, don’t you think, _Brightest Witch_?”

“Why do they call you The Asp?” She asked, ignoring his diatribe.

“Why not?” he snapped, suddenly angry. “Can’t a man have a nickname? Look Granger, I do know why you’re here, I know what you’re looking for and yes it’s dangerous. Unfortunately tonight you’ll not be getting it. As I’m not quite willing to give it up. You’re back to square one I’m afraid.”

“I can arrest you, you know.”

“You can certainly try, love, but a single word and your new boyfriend outside will be in to defend my honour, and I can assure you he doesn’t play nice.”

“Look, you don’t have to give me the potion, Draco…just…tell me more about it, more about who brews it. Tell me the ingredients. I assume you’re…you’re selling it for someone? Did Abner tell you about it? How did you find it? We don’t ever have to get your name involved, just…give me a lead.”

“No. And leave Abner out of it. If there’s one person on the fucking planet who doesn’t deserve to get dragged into a Ministry clusterfuck it's him.”

His voice was quiet and sincere for the first time since she’d walked into the room and so she went with it. She’d come in on fire, but maybe he’d respond better to something else.

“From what I’ve read, it isn’t a recreational drug. It doesn’t…have ‘party’ properties,” she said, walking closer to him. “So why are you taking it?”

He shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with her sincerity, how close she was getting.

“Cavae Magia,” he said, almost under his breath, his jaw clenched tight as the words slipped out.

“What…what is…”

“My magical core is damaged. Something in my blood." He paused then, drawing circles on the desk with a shaking fingertip. "I’m fading away. I tried apparating home after the reunion and splinched half my body. Thank God Abner found me out on the street or who knows what would have happened. My spells don’t work, I can’t…I can’t use occlumency like I used to. Sometimes when things are really bad I feel like my heart is being…squeezed,” he said, making a fist that trembled in the air, “like some outside force is wringing me dry…It’s irreversible, and the one thing, the one-fucking-thing I have in my life that gives me a few precious days, hours at a time when I feel like myself, clear headed, focused, no pain, no confusion…you come waltzing in here to rip it out of my hands.”

He slapped his palm on the table and stood. She was sure he was going to charge at her, get in her face with a wagging finger and continue his tirade, but before he could grab his walking stick he stumbled, falling to one knee, bracing himself on the edge of the desk. She raced forward to help him up but he raised a hand in refusal, his silver eyes flashing with rage as he snapped,

“No! I’m fine, get back!”

The quaver in his voice revealed his true suffering and he looked away from her, pulling himself to stand. In all the years that she’d known him, through the hate and arrogance and jealousy and cool apathy, the one thing she’d never seen on Draco was shame. Even as his crimes were laid out in court he’d held his head high, refusing to break down or look away from the Wizengamot as they tore his whole family to tatters, painting him as a blackhearted villain, threatening to essentially end his life. But now as she watched him tremble, slowly taking hold of his walking stick and making his way to the chair by the fireplace, all she could read in his eyes was shame.

“And don’t worry, petal, I know that I’ve brought all of this down on myself so I’m not looking for your compassion. I know I’m a hateful bastard, have been all my life, and by all accounts I should be dead three times over by now.”

“Draco…”

“This is my punishment,” he said, his voice once again strong and clear as he finally held her gaze, pulling himself up to stand in front of her. “A real nasty one, too. The fucking universe found the one thing I was proud of, the one thing that made me who I am and started slowly ripping it out of me. And there’s no way to get it back. One day I’ll wake up and you’ll have won, Hermione. You’ll finally be more magical than me.”

“Draco that was never…I would never wish something like this on you, even in the worst of times. I’m so sorry.”

“But still looking to confiscate my one salvation, yeah?” 

He groaned, his face taking on a sudden, twisted contortion of pain as he bent forward, holding his side. She knew he would shove her away but still she went closer to him, hands outstretched in some kind of supplication.

“Draco, what is it? Can I help? Where do you hurt?”

She could see that the light sheen of sweat on his forehead had become dotted trails as it slid down his face. In the agony he’d gone even more pale and he sat against the back of the chair, slightly reclined, taking quick shallow breaths through his mouth. His eyes flicked over towards the cabinet, to where he'd found the first vial.

“I’m…I need to touch you,” she said, looking up at him. “To check…” His eyes closed but he said nothing to stop her, his hands digging into the arm rests on the chair. 

Hermione pushed his jumper up just a bit, gasping at the sight of the curving dark lines of the "healed" splinching scar. Around the ruched silvered skin, dark blue blood vessels fingered out into his flesh like a winter tree line along the edges of the old wound. Her eye traveled over to the middle of his chest, to his breastbone where what looked like a deep, purpled bruise was blooming just below his ribs. Again, the tiny creeping branches crawled out from the center, as if he were being taken over by this twisting darkness. 

“Draco what is this….is this your core…”

He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm away, nearing pushing her onto her back. 

“I told you I was fine,” he hissed, grimacing as he pulled his jumper back down. “It’s…there are a few…side effects of the potion and I just have to…” He exhaled, a low, long breath as if collecting himself again. “I need to breathe through it.”

“But you just took it, why are you in this agony?”

He shook his head, his lips in a tight line as he shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, his anger fading to defeat and frustration.

“I don’t know. It’s not…it isn’t usually this bad. I just need to take a bit more in a minute. It’ll be fine I just…I need…can you…”

He held his hand out, pointing towards the small bar on the other side of the room. 

Hermione moved quickly to pour him some water, her heart racing. She had minimal healer training, the equivalent of muggle first aid, but she couldn’t leave him here like this, not alone. Did Justin know what was going on? As she thought through her options she heard a slide and a thump and turned to find him stretched out on the floor face first, his arms crumpled up beneath his chest.

“Draco!” 

Falling to the floor beside him she turned him onto his back and put her ear to his chest. His heart beat steadily behind his ribs, accompanied by slow, shallow breaths, but his normally pale cheeks were flushed bright red and she put her hand to his forehead. Burning with fever.

“Draco can you hear me? We’ve got to cool you down. Lay still…Draco listen to me.”

She pulled her wand out and cast a cooling charm over his limp form, her own body shivering in the sudden cool air. After putting a cushion beneath his head, his breathing lengthened, deepened and she could feel his temperature dropping a bit. He murmured something, caught up in delirium, and she knew she had to check again. Pulling his shirt up she revealed his stomach and chest, the bruise like wound over his core. In only a few moments the skin around it had changed to angry red, the branching dark vessels thicker and longer, taking over more of his flesh. He lifted a hand to grab her wrist, holding tight. 

“Don’t leave me like this...” he said, his voice shaking, small. 

She would send Hannah home, she would call in sick to work, cancel her dinner with Justin. She had no choice. This was her focus now. Reading testimonies and reports and looking at photos was one thing, but if anything had convinced her that she needed to get Viper’s Fang off the street, it was seeing Draco Malfoy on floor, begging _her_ for help. 


	7. The Third Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I can 't apologize enough for how long its taken for this chapter update. I have no excuse except for this story is giving me a lot of trouble :D Seems when I'm not writing wall to wall smut I get more particular with my writing and the words don't come as easily. I'm going to do my best to keep a more regular update schedule, but I do have other WIPs as well. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and for all of your wonderful comments and thoughts. 
> 
> Love you! - grace

He woke up tucked under a blanket, shirt stripped away, the fire burnt down to embers and Hermione Granger asleep in the leather chair with a book hanging from her limp hand.

There had been something so fascinating about watching her worry for him, scurrying around the office, looking for water, cooling his skin. It was almost nostalgic, bringing up memories of when he was a child, his mother tending to his every need, wiping his brow and reading him stories. He may have played up the pain just a bit out of spite, or to make her feel guilty. Maybe it was just to have a chance to feel that nurturing hand, hear a soft voice. Whatever he did it for, it wasn’t the first time he’d gone through what happened; that was very real. In the months since he’d started taking the Fang he’d overdosed twice and each one had been life changing.

The problem was that like with any potion or muggle drug or even the caffeine in his tea, the body grew accustomed to its effects. What he hadn’t counted on was that his body would crave more so quickly. The initial doses he purchased from Norway were supposed to last more than two months and he’d counted on that time to learn how to brew it himself in order to save money. 

That had been the easy part. He’d learned the potion and discovered the secret, tasteless, odorless ingredients in a matter of days. The initial magical energy boost and near euphoria that accompanied his first dose had given him the focus and ambition to hole up in the lab without eating or drinking, picking apart the potion as best he could. But after the third week, he found himself lagging after only a couple days, rather than six or seven as it had been in the beginning. What started as slow rolling hills of feeling good and feeling bad was now spiking like jagged teeth, ups and downs so extreme he would break into a sweat, nauseated from the swing. Taking the potion every five days turned into every other day in a flash and before long, he was constantly brewing, making sure he had enough Fang on hand to carry a vial with him, in case twelve hours went by without him “topping off”.

The first time he’d taken two vials at once he’d laughed out loud, goosebumps rippling over his arms as if he were made of lightning. He was sure that he'd found the answer. Within minutes he’d felt like a child again, clear headed and happy, filled with inspiration and energy. It was as if he’d never had the affliction in the first place, magic bursting from every cell in his body, every negative thing in his life reversed with a single swallow. It was the kind of pure joy he hadn’t felt since the first time he climbed on a broom, his first kiss third year, hearing ‘not guilty’ spoken at the Wizengamot. And yet it faded within a matter of hours, his body wracked with exhaustion, his heart pounding as if it were pumping plaster through his veins. Without thinking he quickly grabbed a third vial, drank half of it and woke up on the floor of the lab, bleeding. A vial of blood replenisher had fallen from the table when he passed out, shattering on the floor, the shards sinking into his arm as he fell, lifeless onto the stones. 

Again it had been Abner who found him. Again it had been Abner who healed him and sent him home. Again it had been Abner staring at him, his eyes sad, filled with disappointment.

“This isn’t the way, Draco,” he’d told him as he vanished the mess on the floor. “I told you this potion is dangerous. And now you’re brewing it yourself? Half of the ingredients are restricted and I can’t allow that in my lab. I just…I can’t take the risk. You understand, don't you my boy? I’m sorry.”

“You’re sacking me?” Draco asked, eyeing the shelves of ingredients and equipment that he relied on to keep him supplied. Even so, it wasn’t the lab he was afraid of losing.

“I think perhaps you need some time to think, maybe speak with another healer, someone more specialized…to find another way to deal with your illness.”

“And what would that be exactly, Abner? You already know there’s no cure. This disease will kill me…”

“Draco…”

“Save your platitudes. It will take away my magic and I assure you, that will kill me. I won’t live as a muggle.”

“If you keep taking this potion the way that you are, son, you’ll end up killing yourself.”

“Don’t call me son,” Draco said, grabbing his wand and satchel. “After throwing me out on the street? Don’t you dare.”

He couldn’t stand the way Abner looked at him, the pity and misery in his watery old eyes. There was no way to undo the harm he’d already done. He would always be a disappointment to the healer who had had such high hopes for him. He had to leave. Money wasn’t the issue and he'd grown accustomed to working alone so he’d gone back to the flat and built his own lab. 

  
Within a month he was careful to never be too far from a vial of Fang. The consequences of missing a dose were too great. When his hit was fading his hands would shake, the muscles in his legs and arms twitching, aching and hot. He became short tempered, unfocused, barely able to cast a simple Lumos. So when he wasn’t sleeping or studying he was brewing vial after vial, miniaturizing and storing them up in case of an ingredient shortage or late delivery. 

Ashby Woodlock delivered his herbs from a magic garden in Oxford. She came every two weeks with a crate crammed full of dried leaves and flowers, powders, pods and oils. Her products were expensive, but it came with silence, both in not asking questions and not telling anyone who she was working with. She’d recognized him the first time she came to the flat and he’d dropped a heavy bag of galleons in her hand to keep her from snooping into his business.

Three weeks into their arrangement she’d appeared at the flat at the appointed time and knocked on the door, calling out for Mr. Asp, the code name he’d given her so as not to raise suspicion. If Draco was anything at all he was punctual, so when he didn’t come to the door she became worried. Stepping inside she found him collapsed on the floor in a sweat, his cheeks red, closed eyelids fluttering as if he were dreaming.

“Draco! Mr…Mr. Malfoy!” Ashby dropped the box she’d been carrying and rushed to his side, slapping his face to wake him. 

He’d only taken an extra half dose, just to…wake up a bit, but it caught up to him quickly. He wouldn’t have died, he was sure of that, but it was good that she saved him just as well. Because then she knew everything. While he crawled to the sofa and curled up to breathe through the harsher symptoms, she went to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, nearly half sugar. He soon fell asleep and she poked around the flat. By and by she saw the vials, the cauldrons, the recipe. She’d already seen the effects and now she knew the great value this potion had for Draco and she knew it would most likely be the same for hundreds of other wizards. 

Opening one of the warm vials next to the cauldron she choked on the smell but dipped her pinky into the liquid and touched it to her tongue. Her whole body shivered, a tingle through her veins as her arms covered with goosebumps. With a glance over her shoulder she dared to pour a few drops on her tongue, less than a sip. Before she could count to ten it was as if she’d been pumped full of black coffee, the cobwebs swept from her brain. Completely unlike being drunk, or high on pixieweed, she was laser focused, strong, clear headed. It was incredible.

It was gold. 

He woke a few hours later, when she was already coming down from the minuscule dose and she got him the tea and something to eat. For a rich pureblood wizard his flat was nearly barren, no art or photographs, no clutter, no pantry full of snacks. It was like he lived in a hotel room, cold and impersonal, as if he had no intention of staying, as if he had no roots.

“It would help you pay for the ingredients,” she explained when she joined him back on the sofa. “And you would never even have to use your name. Like with me, you’re Mr. Asp. I can start spreading the word that the magic rejuvenator is available, but in VERY limited supply.”

“I would never be able to keep up,” he said, although the gears were already turning in his head. Even one or two steady customers would keep him flush, and he had weeks of the potion stockpiled due to his increasing paranoia. “I wouldn’t want it…I don’t want it to be tossed around like candy either. As you can see it’s a powerful potion.”

“You heard of muggle heroin?” Ashby asked, petting Timothy who’d jumped into her lap. “When the addicts find out that there’s a batch going around that kills people with its strength, they seek it out. They think they can pull back just enough to get the ultimate high. I know a lot of people who would be interested in trying this precisely because it’s dangerous. I also know a lot of older wizards who would cut off their arms to get this sort of fountain of youth, they just never knew where to look for it and they don’t want to deal with international transactions.”

After setting the cat back down on the floor, she stood up and took the empty teacup from his hand. Already his eyelids were drooping, the overdose having taxed his system. He would sleep until the next afternoon. 

“Just think about it,” she said. “You don’t have to do all of this alone.”

  
He’d taken Ashby up on her offer, and within two weeks the Alchemy Club was asking him to ‘visit’ on the nights when their older, richer clientele were in town. He knew that one day the Ministry would come calling, that someone would squeal or get hurt or grow a conscience and like he had all his life, he’d have to talk or bribe or threaten his way out of going to Azkaban. Only this time it was literally life or death. It didn’t matter what he had to do, how far he had to go. He would not allow the Viper’s Fang to be taken from him. He would not let his magic disappear. 

He pulled himself up from the floor and found his shirt, still damp with his sweat, and pulled it over his head. Hermione whimpered a bit in her sleep and twisted in the uncomfortable chair, her head lolling forward as the book dropped from her hand. 

Draco had nearly laughed out loud when he realized it was her and Hannah out in the club working “undercover”. Justin had come back to tell him that two nosy birds were poking around, asking about the Fang, but they seemed awfully young and a bit jumpy, putting up all sorts of red flags. 

“Describe them to me,” Draco had asked, lighting a cigarette. 

He spent most of his time at the Alchemy hidden in the back office. Contrary to the image he’d attempted to put forth in his younger days in the Slytherin common room, he didn’t really have much interest in fucking his way through the wizarding community, especially if they were already married and most likely friends with his mother. But if two young single witches wandered in with nothing to do, he could be persuaded to emerge…just once. And surprising Granger, seeing her thrown off her game if only for a minute when she recognized his face was worth all that time staying in hiding.

After dosing up for the morning and fixing a cup of tea he covered Hermione with a blanket and went out to the front of the club, now silent and brightly lit as various staff cleaned and reset for the evening rush. Justin himself was sitting at a table near the entrance counting out galleons and bars of gold. Membership dues.

“You alright boss? Look a little down,” he asked, flipping a toothpick between his teeth. “I never saw that girl leave your office. Did she offer you something other than galleons?”

Justin smiled wide, his teeth gleaming like the half werewolf he was. He was in high demand in the club, particularly amongst the more…mature…witches. Women liked his young, strong body and his ability to “knot”, which Draco required no further detail on. Beyond that his low, throaty voice and impeccable manners kept him up to his neck in pussy, but like a true gentleman he was always happy to see others get theirs as well which made him impossible to hate.

“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her,” Malfoy said, lighting a cigarette. “That was the brightest witch of her age, you dolt.”

“Hermione Granger? The Ministry officer?”

Draco took a long drag and nodded, letting the smoke trail from his nose as he watched Justin work. His morning dose was finally hitting his bloodstream and it was a brief bright moment that he always tried to savor, just an hour or two of feeling pure, glowing magic in his veins; like watching the sunrise. In the silence he stared over at one of the velvet lined booths and thought about Hermione Granger offering him “something other than galleons” and his cheeks felt warm. It had surprised him to see her in shiny black heels with a tight dress that accented her ass and full, perfect tits. It was certainly nothing she’d ever tried to show off at school, and a few years of adulthood had done wonders. His mind wandered, imagining her wearing those heels and nothing else, lounging in his flat, crooking her finger at him as she spread her legs.

Granger. He was imagining fucking Granger. 

Then he was imagining if she’d ever really had a proper fuck, since he’d never believe that Ron Weasley could deliver in that department. Draco may not have had the laundry list of partners that some might have believed, but they’d all left him satisfied. Begging for more, actually. If he gave Hemione a good deep dicking she’d probably forget all about this silly Fang business. 

“So what happened?” Justin asked, pulling him from his filthy trance.

“I…we…reminisced about school…” Draco said, crushing out the rest of his cigarette. “She’s actually still asleep. Now if you’ll excuse me…we have some private plans.”

His mind was going a mile a minute as he chose the right words, appropriate moves...the delicate precision seduction for a lonely woman with a wound up soul. Justin had fed him the perfect daydream, and it had birthed an ideal plan to keep him off the Ministry’s watchlist. If she fell in love with him, or even just his dick...she would never turn him in.

He just had to convince Hermione it was her idea. 


End file.
